April 24, 2020-Distance

 

brown and orange bird on green tree branch

Photo by Lukas Hartmann on Pexels.com

There is a fine distance between myself and the robin.

There are seven yards.

There is the height of the branch.

There is the wall, and the window of my kitchen, the plate glass, the plaster, the brick.

There is my chair

And myself, perched upon it.

Me, still as the robin, enjoying this perfect, soft space

Where I can watch, unheard, unseen

Content with companionship from afar;

Content to observe, to know

Something other than myself, without myself being known;

Content to make this something part of me,

To live within my mind, my fantasies,

Allowing me to increase the distance

With a steady, slow retreat

Into a world away from this noise and hurt.

 

 

 

 

 

April 4, 2020-For my Husband on his Birthday

Just for today, let’s pretend all is well;

that once was, still is;

that a breeze blown from the right direction

can lift mountains

and carry shadows away into the night of another day.

 

Because, my love,

some things still are.

Some things still quiver under aging flesh.

Desire, though obscured by the burdens of time, still pulses.

Hope still begs to be seen

and light still shines

when your hand takes mine.

 

Would It All Be Mine?

sky space telescope universe

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If the ocean turned pink,

then it would be mine.

If the earth changed rotation,

it would be mine.

If the sparrows barked,

they would be mine.

And if the mice spoke,

they would be mine too.

If up became down and down up,

they would be mine.

And if sound became silence

and sight the blackness of night,

they would be mine.

 

If only I stayed silent.

If I had stayed silent

and the ocean turned pink

and the earth changed rotation

the sparrows barked

the mice spoke

and the universe turned itself inside out

and sound and sight disappeared

into the black void of an ancient catacomb

…if I stayed silent,

would it all be mine?

Surely, it would never be yours.

Forty-Six

How long does it take

for a heart to no longer feel?

For the blood to coagulate

and harden?

How long does it take

for the heart to beat against itself-

its soft tissue slapping a relic

of an unfortunate past,

a pulse with no flow,

alive yet dead,

pounding on the door of an empty house?

There is no one home.

After forty-six years

its tenant has left.

 

 

Spindle-Fingered Trees

Winter SkyTrees lurch from an icy wasteland,

their spindle fingers clawing at the sky,

hoping for something to grab hold of,

but there is nothing they can do-I told them so.

Their roots reach too deep into the ground.

There is no way to loosen earth’s grip

unless, of course, I chop them down.

But it strikes me that death is not what they desire.

The poor things are too stupid-they think they can fly.

I can fly-away

-in a plane.

Or, perhaps, not.

Perhaps only in my mind.

But they can’t.

And so I think they are afraid.

I understand.

Sometimes I am afraid too-to be left here.

Sometimes I fear a horrible beast will set fire to this ice-and it will melt

and we will all drown.

flailing and choking on the last of our breaths

until we quiet and sleep

and the ground once again freezes and sprouts trees born of loss

so that they too can reach their spindle fingers into the sky and hope that in the gray nothingness lies

salvation.

 

 

The Moon and the Yew Tree by Sylvia Plath

I didn’t plan to discuss poetry on the show, but two weeks ago I listened to a reading of Sylvia Plath’s The Moon and the Yew Tree, a work that is startlingly haunting and beautiful, and I just couldn’t let go of it. This week I talk about not only the poem but the importance of broadening the lens by which we view Plath.